J is for Jicama
by Cascade Waters
Summary: Such a feeling coming over me... NOT a link in my Coleman Killer letter chain.


J is for Jicama

by firechild

Rated K+

Disclaimer: Cheryl and Nick own Don; Steve and Craig own the mystery character. I can't afford jicama.

Warning: Youuuuuuu might wanna duck right about... now--I'm thinkin' Miz Em is gonna be seriously ticked off...

-----

He really hated this music.

Grocery store radio, at least in this store, consisted mostly of 'easy listening' pieces from the '60s and '70s. No matter how hard he tried not to notice, whatever was playing always seemed to filter into his brain. Within the first five notes, he would automatically identify the song and artist in his head. He had this dubious skill because his mother had loved the stuff; she'd played it so much when he was a kid that he could sing any given period song in his sleep. He'd seen the top of the world, he'd said goodbye to Miss American Pie, and yes, he did, in fact, know the way to San Jose. He'd never enjoyed this music; his tastes were much more eclectic than those of his family, but he'd never liked his mother's 'easy listening' or his brother's 'alternative.'

He rolled his eyes as Barbra Streisand began to croon through the loudspeaker. He had healthy respect for the artist as a professional, but he despised this song. It was just what he didn't need right now--to be walking through a grocery store at nearly 1AM, dog-tired and sporting a sling--dangling unused from his right shoulder--thanks to a perp's wild swing with a car Club, thinking about his mom, and hearing a song that started with the word, "Memories." It had been one of his mother's favorites.

Time had stopped for the Eppes family during the weeks before and just after Margaret's death, and with it all consideration Don had had for his own needs. He'd never admit it to any living soul, but shortly after his mother had passed away, after he had insisted on returning to his own apartment to sleep for the first time in weeks, knowing that he couldn't stand another second of 'family togetherness' that was really a slow-motion falling-apart and that he had to be alone if he was to remain sane, he'd tossed and turned and paced and reorganized his apartment until he could no longer stand to be there, either; it had been nearly 4 o'clock in the morning when he had snatched up his keys, thrown on a sweatshirt over his pajamas, and reflexively taken himself into the just-swept aisles of the little 24/7 store. He'd had a nagging feeling that he needed something--something besides sleep--but for the life of him, he hadn't been able to remember what it was or where in the store it would be; if he tried to think about it now, the only clear memory he had of that prowl through the market was a particular moment when he'd realized that he was hearing "Close to You," and he had spent most of the song standing at one end of the cereal aisle, held in place by memories that he hadn't had it in him to disturb.

A couple of store clerks had approached him during that interlude, obviously concerned about the haggard man standing transfixed between breakfast items and the endcap that held picture frames, but he hadn't responded to their overtures, and they'd been about to call 911 when the song had ended and Don had found himself back in the moment, feeling worn out and strangely lighter, even despite the threat of an embarrassing emotional aftershock. He'd smiled vaguely at each clerk and the approaching night manager, murmuring something about coming back when he could see straight, and he'd gone home, knowing that he'd gotten what he'd needed and that it had cost him only the price of submission to the memory.

Since the radio was now belting out Neal Diamond, Don felt it safe to resume his task: finding enough food to get through a weekend of hosting the afore-mentioned walking calculator. He'd proposed the idea after his father had told him that Charlie seemed especially morose lately; Don knew when he was being played, but having been deep in the melancholy himself lately and not particularly liking the thought of his brother feeling that way, he'd decided to set his own rut aside and work on filling in Charlie's. With that thought back at the front of his mind, Don sighed to himself and plodded off to gather appropriately masculine fare for what Megan had fondly dubbed Eppesalooza.

He'd conquered most of the market territory, working from one end of the store to the other, and finally arrived at the dairy cabinet, where he caught himself studying the faces on the more esoteric milk cartons and thinking about the fact that two of those people were now home and a third was awaiting identification by the ME; sometimes, there were advantages to acting as the ADIC, including getting updates from other teams and departments. When the music gave way to the obligatory store commercial, Don shook himself to clear his head and started scanning expiration dates on the half-gallon jugs, thinking about the package of Oreos in his pantry.

At this hour, he'd found, he was almost always the only shopper in this relatively small store, so when he caught movement in his peripheral vision, he automatically turned his head to assess. What he saw drew an unexpected grin.

She was standing in the produce section, alone and apparently oblivious to her surroundings. She was about 5'7", with comfortably pretty features and a soft, slender figure; she wore a long jumper over a short-sleeved blouse, and the brown of the jumper echoed one of the lighter hues in the straight, mocha-cream hair that brushed the tops of her hips. Her eyes were closed, but at a guess, he'd peg them as doe-brown or soft amber, to blend with her creamy fair skin and long lashes. Her fingers, long and slender with short, natural nails, matched her complexion, which told him that she was making her midnight grocery run sans-cosmetics. Though she looked... pleasant to him, it was what she was doing that amused him.

She was sniffing onions. Three of them, in fact.

She held one in her left hand and two in her right, clutching them with the same gentle kind of security with which she'd have cradled roses, and he could see her tiny, wistful smile. He got the distinct impression that she wasn't testing for freshness; maybe it was the time of night, maybe it was some random variable, but something about the whole scene made his grin grow. He shook his head and turned back to choose a milk.

A moment later he felt more than heard a rumble, but it was the pained yelp that had him whirling, reflexively reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. When he saw that she was still alone and appeared unharmed, he started to breathe again, straightening from the ready-crouch he'd slipped into, and surveyed the situation.

Onion Girl was now standing, or rather, bobbing, among a cascade of onions that were bouncing and rolling merrily toward the end of the section and... and whatever onions would consider the Promised Land, if onions had one. Since the woman seemed to be moving but not actually going anywhere, trying to corral the errant bulbs without following them into the wide world of the bread section, his automatic internal response was that she made one very interesting Moses.

Seeing that none of the... oh, maybe three... other customers in the store had arrived at the scene and that the concerned clerks must have all taken the night off, Don set his milk in the seat of his cart and walked over, nabbing Onionites from the tiles as he neared them. He knelt wordlessly, easily handling multiple bulbs in each hand as he stretched to reposition them in captivity, and clamping down on a wince every time he moved his right arm. He nearly laughed when their fingers brushed a couple of minutes later and she finally realized that he was there. She looked up into his smiling eyes, her face flaming in embarrassment and distress, and it didn't escape his notice that her eyes--the surprising and odd mix of blue and green that reminded him of the December birthstone Megan wore in a ring for her twin nieces--scanned him with the familiar air of someone practiced at checking for weapons. Once she seemed satisfied that he was unarmed, the blush deepened and she lowered her head. Deciding to see what she would do next, Don simply helped her finish replacing the onions and then stood up, offering her his uninjured hand; he wasn't quite sure what to think when she got to her feet without assistance, but from her glance at his hand, he gathered that she at least wasn't affronted by the gesture.

One onion decided to go for act two, making a break for it from the edge of the pile, but Don's quick reflexes let him catch and return the fugitive before it could go to ground. Don glanced up, wondering what her reaction would be to his save, only to find the young woman now studying the jicama soberly, as if her next business deal rested on her choice. Don's grin widened as he realized that she was pretending--she obviously didn't know what to look for in a jicama, possibly didn't even know what it was, and the air of cool professionalism was for his benefit. Not being a fan, he thought sarcastically that he wasn't entirely sure that anyone really knew what to look for in a jicama, but he let that slide.

He could have gone so many ways at that moment, but he chose mercy, after a fashion--he stepped up to the jicama display, taking care to keep about eighteen inches of space between himself and her so as not to startle her, and calmly examined the jicama, choosing four good pieces and placing them in a bag. He fought his smile when he caught her watching him, mimicking his selection method for her own bag. When he was finsihed, and had more jicama than he'd even thought about in years, he turned and walked back to his cart, setting the bag next to the milk and starting to roll slowly away. With each step and each note of "Dream, Dream, Dream," he found himself once again thinking of his mother, and this time he felt only gratitude for so many of the little things she had taught him, such as how to choose the best of a food she had loved and he had never truly cared for; as he inhaled the lingering scent of fresh onions and contemplated the plain tubers in the clear sack, he ceased to see this odd edible as an annoyance and began to understand how something so light and crisp and hearty had had to push through layers of soil to find the light, to survive, to thrive, to have a place. If the silly jicama could manage it, he supposed he'd better.

The right front wheel of the cart squeaked, so much so, in fact, that he almost missed the girl's murmured "Thank you." Stopping and pivoting to face her, he found her, still looking embarrassed but having decided to deal with it, looking at him with genuine gratitude. He inclined his head in acknowledgment, refraining from comment, even though he badly wanted to hear her name, the story behind smelling the onions (none of which she apparently planned to buy,) her voice at all. He forced himself to turn and go, reminding himself that he was embarrassing her further and that he had no reason to spend energy thinking about this nameless onion princess whom he would likely never see again.

But think about her, he did. He smiled all the way through the check-out process, caught himself humming "The Streak" in the car on the way to his apartment, and finally let out an honest laugh as he replayed his vision of her as Moses while he brushed his teeth. He felt wired when he got into bed, but surprisingly, he slept fairly well, dreaming of a woman humming and hands chopping and the comfortably scarred surface of his mother's old kitchen table. When he woke the next morning, in a light mood, he spotted the list he'd made the day before of things he needed to accomplish this morning before picking up his brother from a Saturday morning project session at the school; he needed to finish some laundry, rent a couple of old Godzilla movies, replace the baking soda in the fridge, attack the bathroom sink with the vastly superior (and better-smelling) knockoff of the scrubbing bubbles, pour some White Rain in the tub, and stick some soda in the freezer to chill. But first, he padded into the kitchen, fished out one of Margaret's old paring knives, and found an oldies station on the radio he kept under the counter for his rare cooking kicks.

He had a sudden craving for jicama and a little homemade onion dip.

-----


End file.
